Beneath the Veil of Smoke and Ash

by Tammy Pasterick

  “Yes, it was. I especially liked the sauce. Very buttery.” He tried to hide his smirk.

  “I don’t care how buttery the damn sauce was. I’ve known Harry Easton my entire life. It doesn’t matter whether he’s a state senator or President of the United States. The man likes beef.” Uncle James wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Shannon!” he called after the lead kitchen maid.

  A lovely redhead came running into the room. “Yes, Mr. Harford.”

  “Tell the chef we are having roast beef tomorrow evening. I don’t care if he has to scour the countryside and butcher the cow himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  James leaned back, patting his midsection. “Do you think I can maintain this figure on fish alone?”

  Aunt Edith burst into laughter. “I never had a chance, did I? I can’t argue with both you and your appetite. But honestly, I’m tired of fish, too. Beef with mushroom sauce sounds heavenly. I hope the Eastons don’t think we have no regard for the war effort.”

  “Write them a check to give to the American Red Cross. That should compensate for our failure to adhere to the rationing program.”

  “That’s easy enough,” Aunt Edith said happily. “Lukas, do tell us more about school.”

  Lukas looked across the polished walnut table at his aunt to begin a story about his grumpy English teacher when he spotted something unusual on the mural behind her. “Did you have a little girl and a dog added to your mural since I left for school? I thought Gustaf went back to Philadelphia.”

  Uncle James gave his wife, who was now blushing, a curious look.

  “He did. But I thought the castle and herd of sheep needed a human element, so I added the girl and sheepdog. I know I’m no Gustaf, but I think my additions fit rather nicely. What do you think, Lukas? You have such a keen eye for art.”

  Lukas got up from the table and walked over to the mural that the promising young Swedish painter, Gustaf Karlsson, had worked on for several months the previous spring. He scanned the entire landscape, which covered the top half of the eighteen-foot-long wall. He examined the medieval stone castle, the sheep scattered throughout the hilly meadow, the clusters of lush, green trees, and the pond filled with snow-white geese. Finally, Lukas focused on the young girl running down the hill away from the castle, her sheepdog trailing playfully behind her. She wore a pretty blue dress with white petticoats and a straw hat.

  Lukas felt Aunt Edith’s hand on his back. “Do you like it?”

  “I do. I think you did a remarkable job. The girl looks as though Gustaf painted her himself. You’re very talented, Aunt Edith.”

  “I’ve been encouraging her to get more training. Some of the landscapes she has done recently are quite striking,” Uncle James said.

  “You’re both too kind. Gustaf gave me a few lessons last spring when he wasn’t working on the mural. I find painting relaxing.”

  “The girl …” said Uncle James. “I hadn’t noticed her until Lukas said something. How long has she been there?”

  “Only a few hours. I worked on her all day,” Aunt Edith said. “I saw her in a dream last night.”

  Lukas took his aunt’s arm and escorted her back to the table. It was no secret how badly she and her husband wanted a child. They didn’t discuss the topic with him much, but he had heard whispers among the servants. Rumors of failed pregnancies. He had also noticed that Aunt Edith had begun spending an enormous amount of time in the greenhouse over the past couple of years. She grew all sorts of strange herbs meant to treat her mysterious ailments.

  “Now this might fill me up,” Uncle James joked as a chocolate eclair was placed in front of him. “You’d better get me another, Colleen. That salmon was merely an hors d’oeuvre. These eclairs will be my main course.”

  Lukas nodded emphatically at his uncle. The chef had made something special for his visit. “I’d like two as well,” he said, looking to his aunt for permission.

  “Why not?” she said, smiling. “You’re a growing boy.”

  As Lukas took a bite of the tantalizingly sweet eclair, he suddenly didn’t mind being spoiled by James and Edith Harford. He always enjoyed being in their company, even if they were vastly different from his own family. Sofie often complained that they were overprivileged and unaware of the struggles of the classes beneath them, but they were still such kind and generous people. Lukas wished he could say the same for some of their neighbors.

  “Will you be back to visit next month, or will we need to wait until Thanksgiving to see you again?” Aunt Edith asked Lukas.

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m overwhelmed with homework and tests. I’d like to see my family before the holidays, but getting to Beaver Creek from Westmont is difficult. I may have to wait until Christmas.”

  “That’s a long time. Your father must miss you terribly. Why don’t we invite him and your sister for Thanksgiving dinner here in Shadyside? Maybe your aunt could come, too.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, but my father doesn’t like to leave his store for long. And this neighborhood makes him uncomfortable.”

  “Me, too,” Uncle James said, his mouth full of chocolate eclair.

  “We don’t have to decide anything now,” Aunt Edith said. “We have time. Maybe your family can visit next summer.”

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. I was wondering if I could spend the entire summer break here in Shadyside.”

  “That would be lovely. But won’t you miss your family and friends in Beaver Creek? And your father, especially? He’ll be heartbroken if he doesn’t get to spend at least part of the summer with you.”

  “I know. I don’t want to hurt him, but …” Lukas looked down at his half-eaten eclair.

  “Is something wrong at home?”

  “No, my family is fine. I’m just not sure I belong in Beaver Creek anymore.”

  “You told us before dinner that you don’t feel like you belong at Westmont Academy.” Aunt Edith tilted her head. “Where do you belong then?”

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure.”

  Uncle James put down his fork. “I was wondering when this would happen.”

  Aunt Edith gave her husband a quizzical look.

  “Don’t you see? The boy is trapped between two worlds. His friends in Beaver Creek shun him because he’s the rich kid who attends boarding school. His classmates at Westmont Academy are unaccepting of him because he lacks a blue-blood pedigree. He’s a bit stuck at the moment.”

  “Is that true, Lukas?” Aunt Edith asked.

  “Yes, but there’s more. I’m not always comfortable at school, but I feel even less so in Beaver Creek. I love seeing my family, but going back to that town is …” Lukas hesitated. He wasn’t sure he could share what was on his mind.

  “Go ahead. You can tell us anything,” Aunt Edith urged.

  “Being in Beaver Creek is difficult. I feel more at home in Shadyside. I know I don’t fit in here with my Slovak last name, but at least I can be myself. I don’t have to act dumb or pretend that school is stupid. I don’t have to hide my interest in art and music.”

  “Surely there are a few people in Beaver Creek who value education—besides your family, of course. Not everyone in that town works at the glass factory,” Aunt Edith said.

  “There are some. Teachers, mostly. But definitely not the boys my age. They all want to be football players and track stars. Those are the town’s heroes. I could never fit in that category.” Lukas rubbed his thigh where the leather strap from his prosthetic leg was too snug.

  “Most of those boys will end up working in the glass factory. Their high school glory will be a distant memory in a few years, and they’ll have little to show for it,” Uncle James said cynically. “The key to prosperity is an education.”

  “That’s what my father always says. And I agree with him. I just wish my friends in Beaver Creek felt the same way.”

  “Lukas, it’s quite possible your friends are jealous of your boarding school edu
cation and the opportunities it will afford you. You’re moving on to bigger and better things, and they’re resentful. It’s only natural,” said Uncle James.

  “I guess. Maybe if I were an athlete, at least we’d still have something in common.”

  “I’ll talk to your father about the situation,” Aunt Edith interjected. “He’ll understand your predicament. You have wonderful friends here who appreciate your unique talents.”

  “Not everyone accepts me here either. Plenty of kids in the neighborhood make fun of my last name. Frankie Spencer is one of the few who doesn’t care that I’m the son of immigrants.”

  “But isn’t it nice to live in a community where brains are valued over brawn—where academic pursuits are encouraged and not ridiculed?” Uncle James asked.

  Aunt Edith raised an eyebrow. “Is that so, my former college football star?”

  “No one even remembers that I played football. I’m known now for my teaching and writing. And my exceptional wit, of course.” Uncle James chuckled.

  “I admit that I do like Shadyside,” Lukas said as he took another bite of his chocolate eclair, his mood lightening. “How could anyone not want to live in a neighborhood where the houses are works of art and the air is clean?”

  “No idea,” said Aunt Edith as she shoved a fork into her mouth. “These eclairs are simply delicious.”

  Twenty-Eight

  POLE

  ABBOTT’S HOLLOW, SEPTEMBER 28, 1917

  Pole woke slowly to the painful throb of an enormous headache. He opened his eyes for a split second, relieved to see that his carbide headlamp was still working. Unfortunately, it had been knocked off his head during the roof collapse and was resting several feet away from him. He lay on the cold, hard floor of the tunnel for several minutes, willing himself to move toward the light. He could not do it. The pulsating pain coming from the top of his head coupled with the lower back and leg pain that had been plaguing him all day were more than he could bear. He closed his eyes and wondered if he should pray. His sister, Lily, would certainly be praying if she were in his predicament. Pole doubted there was any point. He was buried deep in the earth, far closer to hell than heaven. He wondered if the devil would appear to collect him and relieve him of his misery.

  Sometime later, Pole thought he heard the faint sound of rocks sliding. He forced his eyes open and saw a flicker of light on the wall ahead of him. It was moving closer. Was that Lucifer? Pole expected the flames surrounding the devil to be much brighter. He closed his eyes, indifferent to his fate.

  “Wake up!” a voice shouted. “Are you alive? You’re bleedin’!”

  Pole felt something nudging him and patting his face. He swatted at the annoying pest.

  “You need to get up. The roof’s not safe here.”

  Pole ignored the voice and tried to cover his ears. He felt so dizzy. Suddenly, the throbbing in his head intensified. Was something shaking him?

  “Goddamn it! Sorry, I got to do this.”

  Slap.

  Pole woke up, startled by a burning, stinging sensation on his right cheek. “What the hell?”

  “You need to get up. We’ve got to get back to the end of Ruthie. Hamish and Gus are waiting there for us.”

  Pole opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light shining in his face. “Mickey?”

  “You got hit in the head real hard. Come on. I’ll help you outta here.” Mickey pulled Pole to his feet and carried his headlamp for him. “We better not put this back on your head. You got a pretty good gash by the looks of all that blood. You feelin’ all right?”

  “Not really. My head’s poundin’, and I’m a little wobbly.” Pole touched his right temple, instantly aware of how wet and sticky his face was. “How bad do I look?”

  “You’re a bloody mess. But that might not mean much. My mama always says head wounds bleed the worst.”

  “Did you see the water jugs anywhere?” Pole asked, feeling his senses returning. “I was carrying them when I fell. We’re going to need ‘em.”

  “Here, you hold your headlamp while I look.”

  Pole leaned against the wall of the tunnel as Mickey scanned the area with his headlamp, trying to locate their only source of drinking water. For the first time, Pole looked back in the direction of where the roof of the tunnel had caved in. He held up his headlamp and shined it on the massive pile of rock and timber stacked haphazardly just a few feet away. He gasped when he realized how close he had come to being buried under that mountain of rubble. His blood stains were on the rocks an arm’s length from where the roof had completely crumbled. He felt lucky to be walking away with only a throbbing headache.

  And then a disturbing thought—what happened to Blazovich and Petras? Were they somewhere under that pile of earth? Pole’s heart sank. Blazovich’s wife had given birth to a premature baby earlier in the week, who was barely clinging to life. Had she lost her husband, too?

  “I found the water jugs. They were at least ten feet apart,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “Are you crying?”

  Pole rubbed at his eyes. “Blazovich and Petras … I don’t think they made it out.”

  Mickey’s face fell. “You sure? They were pretty far ahead of us. Maybe they made it back to the elevator.”

  Pole studied the boy’s face. He was so young and naive, not having spent nearly enough time in these treacherous mines to become hardened and cynical. The poor kid still had hope. Pole didn’t have the heart to tell Mickey the truth.

  “You’re probably right. They left the area at least five minutes ahead of us. And we were walkin’ pretty slow with Gus. I’m sure they’re fine,” he lied. “At least they can get to the surface and tell the others what happened to us.”

  “How long do you think before we get help?”

  Pole thought of the mine collapse that killed his father in the summer of 1910, only months after they had arrived in Abbott’s Hollow. “Not long. Hopefully by tomorrow morning.” Another lie. As Pole followed Mickey to the end of Ruthie Tunnel where they had been blasting all week, he could hear the whinny of a mule.

  “Poor Gus is upset. I wish I had some sugar cubes left to give him,” Mickey said.

  Pole rubbed his head as he hobbled slowly. The mule was the least of his worries. He wondered what condition Hamish was in. His shoulder had been bleeding badly the last time he saw him. Pole wondered how long it had been since the roof collapsed. It felt like hours. He stopped to look at his pocket watch. It was almost seven o’clock.

  “There he is. Good to see you alive, laddie. I was worried you didna make it,” Hamish said when he saw Pole.

  “Just barely. How are you doin’? How’s your shoulder?” Pole walked over to the old-timer, who was sitting on the ground, leaning against the face of virgin coal they hadn’t yet begun drilling. His work shirt was drenched with blood, as were his pants. He was clutching his side, wincing each time he inhaled. “How deep are your wounds?” Pole leaned over for a closer look. “You didn’t break a rib, did you?”

  “I mighta. Hurts real bad when I breathe.” Hamish grunted. “Doesn’t matter though. I can’t do anything about it until we get to the surface.”

  “Maybe we can clean you up a little,” Mickey suggested. “See how bad you’re hurt.”

  “Can’t do that. We need to save our water for drinkin’. That’s the only way to stay alive down here. It’ll be days before anyone gets to us—if we’re lucky.”

  “Pole said that help will be here by tomorrow mornin’. Isn’t that right?” Mickey said, sounding alarmed. He turned to Pole for reassurance.

  Hamish flashed Pole a look of warning.

  “I said hopefully we’ll have help by the morning. It could be a little longer.” Pole patted Mickey’s back. “Gus sounds like he could use some comforting. Go stroke his muzzle. You know the spot he likes.”

  Pole sat down on the ground next to Hamish. He watched Mickey carefully approach the whinnying mule standing against the tunnel wall, just far enough aw
ay for Pole to have a private conversation with the veteran miner.

  “All right, Hamish. Tell me the truth. Are we gettin’ outta here?”

  “I can’t say for certain. We’re buried deep. It’ll take days for a rescue crew to get through all them rocks and rubble—if the coal company even sends one down here. It might be too risky. In the meantime, we could run out of oxygen—if we don’t bleed out first.” Hamish looked down at the blood on his shirt.

  Pole shuddered. “I thought I wanted you to be honest, but now I think a lie woulda been kinder.”

  “Sorry, lad. But here’s the good news. We’ll die of suffocation before we starve. That mule should keep us fed for days.”

  “You can’t be serious. We’re not killin’ that mule. If Mickey ever makes it out of this mine alive, he’ll be scarred for life.”

  “Didn’t I warn that boy not to get too attached to that animal? The mules in this mine are not pets,” Hamish said bitterly. “I was trapped underground for five days when the mine collapsed all those years ago. How do you think I survived?”

  “You killed a mule?” Pole’s eyes widened.

  “Nah, I wasn’t lucky enough to be trapped with a mule. I ate rats. And so did yer daddy—until he died.”

  Pole stared at Hamish. “You never told me you were trapped with my pop.”

  “Gus is doing much better now,” Mickey said, sitting down on the ground across from Pole and Hamish, interrupting the heated conversation. “I gave him a drink of my water.”

  “Don’t go givin’ all yer water away to that animal. You need to decide right now whose life is more important. Yers or that mule’s.”

  Seeing the look of panic on Mickey’s face, Pole quickly intervened. “Mules can go for days without water, Mickey. You need to save what you have left for yourself.”

  “I just gave him a little. I think he was thirsty from all that whinnying. I’m sure Blazovich and Petras made it up to the surface by now. The mine owners are probably already working on a plan to get us out.”

  Pole looked over at Hamish, who was getting ready to open his mouth. He elbowed his good arm and gave him the dirtiest look he could muster.